[img][/img] [center] [img]https://imgur.com/zajpa3v.jpeg[/img] [h2][color=orange][b]DEATHSTROKE #1[/b][/color][/h2][color=lightgray][sub]Abandoned Warehouse, Gotham City | 9:00 PM[/sub][/color] [/center] [img][/img] Another day, another felony took place. Surely, it wouldn’t have been Gotham without criminals raging every now and then. The city had always been known as a safe haven for the world’s most notorious felons. Burglars, mobsters, terrorists, and even the mentally unhinged were welcomed to stay and run each and every section of the city with barely any real persecution. No part of it was safe, and that included even the most remote area of Gotham. Tonight, a small-time crook had been holding a son of one of the wealthier families in Gotham captive within an abandoned warehouse. It was the same warehouse that the crook and his comrades often used to trade weapons, as it was situated in the middle of nowhere. The boy fidgeted and squirmed in his seat, trying to escape the rope that’d been tying him to a chair. “Urgh… Let me go!” he urged, his face scrunching. “Where’s daddy?” The crook—an assault rifle in his hands—closed in with an eerie smirk plastered by the lower half of his face. He stood next to the boy, then lowered his shoulders, raising the latter’s mandible with the tip of his weapon. He spoke closely to his brown temple, his voice soft yet threatening. “Oh, don’t worry, little one. Daddy’s gonna take you home once we get the payment,” he told the boy, then shut the latter’s mouth with a plaster. “So, why don’t you behave yourself, hm? Be a good boy, will ya?” The crook drew the tip of his rifle out of the boy’s mandible, which prompted the latter to soften his face in relief. At least, for now. He pulled a handheld radio out of his pocket, making a call for his three stooges waiting from across the farthest section of the warehouse. “Hey, hey, do you copy?” he asked with a stern voice, in which the stooges answered “copy” simultaneously. “Is everything under control?” “Affirmative!” one of them answered. “Good…” the crook responded. “Make sure nobody enters the warehouse but our target, do you copy?” “Copy that!” all three stooges answered in unison. As their boss concluded the call, the stooges continued to guard the front section of the warehouse, their rifles pointing at each and every corner of their surroundings. So far, nothing suspicious was caught lingering around the spacious interior. Little did they realize, somebody had awaited them from the platform above, watching from the shadows as he readied himself to claim the clueless souls patrolling beneath his crimson glare. The sound of a loading weapon emerged, though it came from none of the rifles held by the oblivious stooges. It was slightly below a whisper, not enough to attract anybody’s attention within the building. Not like there were that many people inside, anyway. Just before any of them could anticipate… [b][i]BLAM![/i][/b] …One of them received a shot to the temple, the firing bullet breaching through the cranium. The noise was silent but deadly, and the hunted prey quickly collapsed on his side, crimson fluid spilling out of the wounded area. The bloody sight was enough to attract the attention of the two remaining stooges. Their eyes bounced from one side of the warehouse to another, searching for any signs of suspicious movements. And before they knew… [b][i]BLAM![/i][/b] …Another one was eliminated, becoming the second victim of the mysterious assassin and his firing weapon. The last one of the trio was alarmed, panicked and confused as to what had truly transpired. He sweated uncontrollably, widened eyes scanning the area as he took a couple of cautious strides to the back. Unbeknownst to the oblivious stooge, the mysterious assassin had approached him from behind, leaving only a silent thud formed by his descending boots. Without warning, he tightly wrapped his toned arm around the stooge’s neck, his gloved hand covering the latter’s mouth. The felon dropped his rifle and squirmed, trying to free himself from the suffocating neck lock. But before he could move any further… [b][i]CRACK![/i][/b] …The assassin had twisted his neck, breaking his bone and forcing him to remain silent forever. He dropped the now lifeless stooge, watching as he clumsily collapsed on his back. With every smaller crook now eliminated, he finally stepped out of the shadows, revealing himself to be [url=https://imgur.com/a/2f7ylWb]an armored masked man clad in pale blue and bright orange.[/url] The residents of Gotham recognized him as [color=orange][b]Deathstroke[/b][/color], the notorious Terminator and the rising world-class mercenary who’d been making waves within the criminal underworld over the past years. As he drew a sword crossed behind his back, Deathstroke approached the farther section of the warehouse, subsequently forcing the door open with an arduous kick. There, he came face-to-face with the bigger crook who’d been keeping his client’s son captive, gauging his frightened expression with a glare. The crook seemed to recognize him, too. “Oh, no…” the crook muttered. “Not you! Y– You’re…” [color=orange]“Yeah, that’s right,”[/color] Deathstroke disrupted, spinning the sword in his grip. [color=orange]“I’m the [i]payment[/i] you’ve been looking for.”[/color] The crook swallowed, then gnashed his teeth, trembling and shivering as the masked Terminator drew his strides closer and closer in his direction. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting the boy’s parents to send somebody as ruthless as Deathstroke to rescue him. Anxiously, the crook began firing the assault rifle in his hands, only for his adversary to cut down every bullet that came in his path with much precision. Although fruitless, he still insisted on doing so, thinking at least one of them would hit until… [b][i]CLICK…[/i][/b] [b][i]CLICK…[/i][/b] “Shit…” …he was running out of bullets. The crook reached out to the strap circling his torso with his hand, seizing an ammunition attached to it. Unfortunately for him, before he could load his rifle… [b][i]SLASH![/i][/b] …Deathstroke had already managed to slice the weapon in half using his sword. Frustrated, the crook tossed both his chopped rifle and ammunition away, subsequently drawing a small blade from his belt. Aimlessly, he began swinging the sharp weapon in Deathstroke’s direction, but to no avail. Each and every attempt he made to wound his adversary fruited zero outcomes, as the sword tackled the blade with ease. [b][i]CLING…[/i][/b] [b][i]CLING…[/i][/b] [b][i]CLING…[/i][/b] [b][i]SLASH![/i][/b] Eventually, Deathstroke managed to retaliate, the sharp tip of his sword grazing against the crook’s leathery wrist. The blade was forced out of his grip, causing a massive splash of blood to escape the wounded area. The crook reflexively held his wrist, flinching. “Argh… Fuck!” [color=orange]“Game over, sucker!”[/color] Deathstroke warned, then gestured his sword under the crook’s mandible. [color=orange]“You’re through! Either you release the kid or—”[/color] “Please… Please, don’t!” the crook urged, tears rolling out of his eyes as he kneeled before the Terminator. He pressed his palms together, almost as if he was begging for his life. “I’ll let the kid go, but please, don’t kill me. I– I still have a daughter back home!” Deathstroke paused, his sword lowering and his wrinkled face softening from under the mask. All a sudden, the crook’s mention of his daughter reminded him of his younger son, Joseph. Just thinking about his younger son, he couldn’t imagine something horrible happening to him, especially after what happened to his older brother many years back. Even worse that the Terminator had involved himself in the same criminal underbelly that the crook had drowned himself into, putting his family in a risky position if or when he was ever revealed to be a retired lieutenant colonel by the name of [color=orange][b]Slade Wilson[/b][/color] While considering the plea, his only eye leaped between the terrified crook and the squirming boy, carefully observing their faces. The boy, in particular, was a split image of his older son, Grant, who was about his age when he passed away. Somehow, he found the physical resemblance uncanny that he could picture the boy as his older son getting kidnapped and helplessly tied to a chair. Although almost hesitating, Deathstroke finally made up his mind. Before glancing back at the crook, he shushed at the brown-haired boy, his finger raised over his barely parting lips. [color=orange]“Close your eyes,”[/color] Deathstroke warned, his voice oddly quiet and calming. [color=orange]“Don’t open them till I tell you so, got it?”[/color] The boy couldn’t say anything but nod in reciprocation, closing his eyes and sitting still. Then, as the cold-blooded Terminator glared at the pleading crook, he caught him by surprise. He swung his sword, and the crook was ambushed. [b][i]THWACK![/i][/b] Eradicated, even. Knowing that the crook had put the life of an innocent boy in danger, Deathstroke had determined he deserved to be punished rather than to be tolerated, despite the fact that the latter, too, had a child back home. While he was far from being a virtuous individual like Superman or Captain America, he still had his own set of moral codes, especially when it came to innocent children and women. Clearly, in spite of his ferocious exterior, he deeply despised those who dared to endanger innocent lives. As the masked mercenary separated the head from the body, the crook crumpled, drowning in his own pool of crimson fluid. [color=orange][i]Fucking amateur,[/i][/color] Deathstroke scoffed inwardly, furrowing at the lifeless sight before him. [color=orange][i]Go straight to Hell where you belong![/i][/color] As the execution was completed, the masked mercenary retracted the sword close to his front, cleaning the blood staining its shimmering surface with a wipe of his wrist. [b][i]SPLASH![/i][/b] His arm was slammed, and the fresh fluid scattered across the floor, painting his vicinity red. His prey’s blood might’ve been wiped away, but its noisome stench remained. Using the same sword, Deathstroke freed the boy sitting next to the crook’s decapitated form, gently slicing the rope wrapping his small frame. Standing across him, he removed the plaster that’d been keeping the boy’s mouth shut, lowering his shoulders to better reach the shorter brunette. [color=orange]“Almost there,”[/color] he told the boy with a reassuring voice. [color=orange]“Now, I want you to count to 50. Think you can do it?”[/color] The boy nodded, still keeping his eyes shut. “Yeah, of course!” he affirmed, “I can do that.” [color=orange]“Good…”[/color] As the boy started the count, Deathstroke stowed his sword behind his back, then began cleaning up the mess he’d been causing. Thankfully, there weren’t that many corpses needed to be hidden, which means it wouldn’t be long until he could leave the warehouse with the rescued. He picked a fuel container perching by the corner of the room, spilling its oily content across every section of the building. Once done, he brought the boy over his shoulder, then drew a lighter out of his utility belt, giving ear as the boy nearly finalized the count. “Forty seven… forty eight… forty nine…” Just as he left and stood right across the entrance of the warehouse, the masked mercenary flicked the lighter, a miniscule trail of flame ignited across its tip. He tossed the lighter across the fueled floor, setting the abandoned building on fire alongside the corpses it contained. [b][i]WHOOSH…[/i][/b] “And… Fifty!” As he expected, the count ended by the time the warehouse was engulfed in flames. Deathstroke turned against the fiery vicinity, his strides swift yet steady as they drew away from the burning building behind. Hopefully, by the time the boy reopened his eyes, he didn’t get to see the fiery sight that he’d just created. It’d always been his habit to leave no traces behind so as to not get caught by the authorities. [color=orange]“You’re safe, kid,”[/color] he reassured. [color=orange]“You can now open your eyes.”[/color] The boy did as the masked mercenary told, opening his eyes just to see a distant glow emitted by the flames devouring the warehouse. He scratched his eyes, then blinked. “Where am I now?” he asked. [color=orange]“On our way back home,”[/color] Deathstroke simply answered, readjusting the smaller figure burdening his shoulder. [color=orange]“Just stay put, you hear me? It shouldn’t take long.”[/color] “Oh…” As the boy looked down, he’d only noticed just now that he’d been carried atop the mercenary’s shoulder this whole time. He might’ve thought that Deathstroke was one of the felons holding him captive early on, considering his not-so-friendly appearance. It couldn’t help when the Terminator’s armored form was decked with weapons, ranging from pistols and rifles to swords and blades. He gasped, then scrunched his face in exasperation, trying to squirm his way out of the protective grip. “Hey, what are you doing!?” he asked, his squealing voice raised. “Put me down, you moron!” Hearing the boy’s demand, Deathstroke laughed. Not only that the boy resembled his older son, he even acted the way he used to behave, too—both abrasive and loudmouthed. The masked mercenary decided to ignore his demand, still carrying him on his shoulder, anyway, despite the resistance. [color=orange]“Oh, look at you spoiled, little punk, scoffing and yelling at me just like that. Who do you think you are? My boss?”[/color] he retorted, then sighed, rolling his only eye. [color=orange]“I’m not one of those bad guys here. ’Least not in this particular scenario. You should’ve been grateful that somebody’s here to save you. Otherwise, you could’ve just died out there.”[/color] The boy frowned and stuck his tongue out at his rescuer, still trying to free himself. “Oh, yeah?” he asked back, a hint of challenge in his voice. “I saw what you did to the guy back there. Do you really think that I was going to keep my eyes closed the whole time?” Deathstroke’s eye widened in surprise. If he knew that he was rescuing an obnoxious brat, he wouldn’t have trusted him in the first place. He glared sidelong at the boy, now legitimately furious. [color=orange]“You little scum!”[/color] he cursed, then huffed. [color=orange]“I can’t believe you… You were peeking at what I did this whole time?”[/color] The boy nodded, playfully smirking. “Well, just a little…” he joked, bringing his thumb and index closer to form a pinching gesture. “Do you know that my dad is friends with Commissioner Gordon? I can just tell him what you did to those guys back there, putting you in Arkham Asylum where you should be.” However, despite the threat, Deathstroke was unfazed, remaining silent as his strides slowed down when the burning warehouse became way too distant. He frowned and frowned, wanting to hand the little delinquent back to his client as fast as he could. “What? Why so serious?” the boy asked, his eyebrows arching. “Are you scared?” The masked mercenary huffed again, peering over the boy on his shoulder. [color=orange]“Do I look like I’m scared?”[/color] he asked back, his voice stern. [color=orange]“I’m not a coward, kid. I’ve been through wars back then. Still am. You think Commissioner Gordon’s ever been to Afghan before?”[/color] He gauged the boy’s expression, finding that he’d been listening intently. [color=orange]“And I know that your dad’s probably not gonna snitch me to the GCPD. We, too, are friends, y’know.”[/color] “Ooh… so scary…” the boy answered, then giggled, feigning fright and astonishment. “Okay, so you guys are friends. Cool.” He playfully nodded, then stopped squirming around. “But hey, I have to admit that was the coolest fight I’ve ever seen. Like… like it was straight outta comic books or something!” Abruptly, he stopped talking, reminded of one particular masked hero he’d always admired. He gasped, covered his mouth, then widened his eyes in realization before glancing sidelong at the man who’d been carrying him around. “Wait a minute… are you who I think you are?” [color=orange]“What?”[/color] Deathstroke asked back, arching an eyebrow at the boy. “You’re Batman, aren’t you?” he asked with narrowed eyes, inspecting the masked mercenary. Deathstroke snorted. He shook his head. [color=orange]“Nah, kid,”[/color] he answered, [color=orange]“I’m just the guy your dad sent to rescue you.”[/color] He didn’t know whether to be flattered or exasperated when the boy compared him to Batman. While he’d always respected the Dark Knight for what he’d done to the city, he couldn’t deny that he often felt threatened by his presence, knowing he could’ve been the person locking the Terminator behind bars someday. After all, Batman was the second—and perhaps, the main—reason why he never left traces of his murders. Then, as the two continued to part ways with the secluded area, a growling noise attracted the mercenary’s attention. No doubt, it must’ve come from the boy, knowing that he’d been held hostage for days. [color=orange]“Hey, kid, you’re hungry?”[/color] he asked, his voice slightly softening. The boy hesitated, noticing that his stomach had just growled. He seemed embarrassed. “Well, kinda…” he answered. [color=orange]“I see,”[/color] Deathstroke responded, closely approaching the motorcycle he parked just half a mile away from the burning warehouse. [color=orange]“Want some ice cream?”[/color] “Erm… Sure!” the boy accepted, his face lighting up at the thought of eating his favorite delicacy. He glanced down, noticing that his small frame was still carried above the mercenary’s shoulder as they were closing in on the two-wheeled vehicle ahead. “Uh, excuse me, ‘Mr. Scary Mask,’ you know that I can walk by myself, right? Can you just put me down already?” [color=orange]“Jesus Christ!”[/color] Deathstroke retorted. [color=orange]“Will you please just shut up!?”[/color] [b]FIN.[/b]